Selfless
by castiello
Summary: Dean's dying, and Sam has a very important decision to make.  Just a little Season Six scenario I couldn't get out of my head.


**Selfless**

by castiello

Dean's eyes scanned the dark, empty forest all around him. It had been five minutes, at least. He swallowed nervously.

Sam had said he'd be right back, but Robo-Sam was a pretty decent liar.

Dizziness made Dean want to close his eyes, but he kept them open. Kept looking.

It was another minute before he heard soft footsteps padding across the cushion of dead pine needles. Sam's gigantor silhouette loomed into view, and Dean relaxed, leaning his head back against the tree trunk.

"I tried calling Cass," Sam told him. "But so far, nothing."

"Oh, I'm sure he's just really busy," Dean muttered sarcastically. "Angel Civil War and all."

Sam bent down and pulled the balled-up jacket away from Dean's belly. Dean felt a fresh surge of blood wash hotly across his cool skin, soaking his shirt and jeans. Sam pressed the jacket back in place and stood up.

He watched Dean for a moment before speaking. "Look, we got no car, no phones, and the nearest hospital's at least fifty miles away." Sam met Dean's eyes neutrally. "You're not going to make it."

"No kidding, Sherlock," Dean grumbled.

"I'm sorry," said Sam.

But he wasn't really. Dean could tell.

Looking away from his empty brother, Dean's eyes came to rest instead on the black briefcase. It sat on the ground about four feet away, in a nest of soft needles. Dean looked at it, and knew that in spite of everything, he couldn't be sorry about how tonight had turned out.

He glanced back up at Sam. "So, you gonna do it?"

Sam blinked. "What, right now?"

Dean grinned feebly. "No time like the present."

Sam eyed the briefcase. He looked uneasy. "I'm not sure I should…"

Dean's eyebrows shot upward. "Seriously? After everything we just went through, you're changing your mind _now_?"

"No, no, I haven't changed my mind. I'm definitely going to do it. Just…not right now."

"Why not?"

Sam studied him impassively for a moment. "Well, if I do it right now, then I'll start to care what's happening to you."

"Yeah, probably," Dean agreed.

"I don't think I want that. I remember what it feels like, to watch you die and care that it's happening. It's a bad feeling. The worst one of all. So, I think I'll just wait."

"What, 'til after I'm dead?"

"Yeah," Sam said frankly.

Dean sighed. He felt very weary all of a sudden. "All right. Yeah. I get that. But just…don't wait too long, okay?"

"I won't."

Dean sighed again and tried to shift into a more comfortable position. A flash of pain cut through him at the movement. He clutched at the bloody jacket and groaned.

Sam watched him through the darkness, blinking curiously.

The pain ebbed slowly, and Dean sagged against the tree, weak and breathless.

"So…what does it feel like?" Sam asked.

Dean squinted at him. "What, dying?"

Sam nodded.

"It feels like dying," Dean told him in a tired, flat voice. "You've died before, you know what it feels like."

Sam nodded again. He looked thoughtful. "Are you afraid?"

Dean met his eyes. "A little," he admitted. "But it's okay."

"Right," said Sam, his face blank and unconcerned.

Dean swallowed and looked away. After a few minutes, something warm started to trickle across his thigh. Dean tried to press the jacket down harder, but his fingers were having a hard time gripping it. He gave up and just stared out into the dark woods.

It took him by surprise, when Sam spoke up again:

"I remember what it feels like to die…" he began slowly.

Dean looked over at him.

"…But I don't remember being afraid," Sam finished.

Dean looked away again. "You're braver than me then, I guess…"

"I don't think it's like that. I mean, some of the times I died, it happened too fast. There wasn't time to feel scared. There wasn't time to feel anything. But when I fell into the cage with Lucifer and Michael, that time was slow…and I still didn't feel afraid."

"Huh," said Dean, staring down at his own shoes. He couldn't feel his legs at all anymore.

"I think because you were there."

_That_ made Dean look up.

"Yeah," Sam went on, caught up in his own train of thought, "I was falling, and I knew I was dying, but when I looked up, I could still see you. That made it better, knowing you were right there."

Dean watched his brother carefully, not exactly sure where this was coming from, or where it was going. _This_ Sam certainly didn't need assurances, but Dean decided to give one anyway: "Well, you're right here with me now and I…I'm glad."

"But I'm not the one you really want, right? You'd rather have the old Sam?"

Dean frowned. It was getting hard to hold his head up. "What's your point?"

"If…if you could have the old me back right now, would that make it better for you? Would you be less afraid?"

Now Dean was the one studying Sam curiously. "Well, yeah, but…You said you didn't want to do it right now. It'll hurt too much."

"It will. But maybe I'll do it anyway."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure…For you, I guess."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I didn't think you could make a decision like that – you know, hurt yourself to help me…"

Sam shrugged. "Neither did I."

"But you're offering?"

"I guess I am."

Dean glanced at the briefcase, then back at Sam. "Hey, maybe that thing's already rubbing off on you…" Dean tried to grin.

Sam huffed a small laugh. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just that I want things to be square between us. I don't want any debt – even if it's to a dead person. You helped me get the briefcase. If I help you not to be afraid, then we'll be even. I won't owe you anything anymore."

"You don't owe me anything now," Dean said seriously.

Sam said nothing. He was gazing at the briefcase, considering it.

Dean's head started to droop sideways. He struggled to lift it back up. His chest felt tight. "Well?" he panted. "You gonna do this thing or not? 'Cause I ain't got all night…"

Sam stared at the case for a moment more, some indecipherable thought processes passing behind those intelligent, emotionless eyes. And then…

"Yeah. I'm gonna do it."

Dean watched as his brother strode over to the briefcase, popped the latches, hesitated a beat, then started to lift the lid.

Pure, white light poured out through the crack, blazing brighter than the sun. Brighter than an angel. Dean had to close his eyes. He heard Sam gasp loudly. A second later, there was a soft thump.

Dean managed to peel open his eyes, even though the lids were getting very heavy. Sam was on the ground, on his knees, breathing and shaking. He didn't look any different than before. The briefcase was wide open and empty.

"Sam?" Dean questioned tentatively.

Sam looked up, blinking. He saw Dean.

And then he _saw_ Dean.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, crawling over dirt and needles to reach his brother. Sam's eyes traveled up and down Dean's body, looking urgent and stricken. His hands found the balled-up jacket and he pressed down fiercely – warm, strong fingers closing over Dean's cold ones. "No, no…"

Sam's face was crumpling, his eyes flooding, as though every single thing he hadn't been able to feel before was now hitting him head-on, full-force, all at once. "_Dean_…" Sam's voice was a moan, bubbling over with agony and ecstasy. His tears felt like rain, dripping down on Dean's face.

Dean looked up into his brother's eyes – his _real_ brother – and managed a tiny smile.

"Hey, there, Sammy. Good to see ya. It's been a while…"


End file.
